Poetics and Poetry Discussion

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  • Rookie Declan McHenry (12/12/2005 4:23:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply
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    Continuing the fashion for posting poems from countries starting with I, I offer this anonymous 16th Century Irish piece, in translation.

    Song at Parting

    Now, since of this alone I'm sure,
    That you were false to me,
    Do you endure and I'll endure
    That we should strangers be.

    So if you chance to hear my name
    In cottage or in hall,
    Speak neither praise of me nor blame,
    Nor talk of me at all.

    And if we meet, as we may do,
    At church or on the plain,
    You'll pass me by as I will you,
    Nor turn your head again.

    We'll ne'er admit that it was I
    That did you so adore,
    And both of us will soon deny
    We even met before.

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    • Rookie Joseph Daly (12/13/2005 3:29:00 AM) Post reply

      This is a wonderful piece Declan. It is odd that it is around 400 years old because it retains a freshness. The language is beautiful, it would make a great example to the few younger writers on PoHu ... more

  • Rookie Herbert Nehrlich1 (12/12/2005 7:16:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Jusr received, among a thousand other things, from my visiting son, Jefferson's book.
    Looks very cute though a bit fragile. Needs illustrations.
    But I will save the main course for Christmas.
    It is under the tree now.
    Best wishes
    and I will keep you informed

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Herbert Nehrlich1 (12/12/2005 4:09:00 PM) Post reply

      Thanks for all the good wishes, by the way. He loves my Hemi... Best H

    • Rookie Herbert Nehrlich1 (12/12/2005 4:07:00 PM) Post reply

      Wel, it's just that whenever I think of Jefferson I get this vision of flowery boxer shorts. That's why the word 'cute' slipped in. Also, there were a few hugs in the autograph section. Cute. Best ... more

  • Rookie Michael Shepherd (12/12/2005 6:27:00 AM) Post reply

    Mahnaz, perhaps too precipitately but thanks to you and reading Shamlu's poems and his lifestory, I've posted a poem which if you approve it enough, you might like to translate into Persian and pass it on? No sweat.

  • Rookie Allan James Saywell (12/12/2005 2:07:00 AM) Post reply

    i'v been having problems sally and i have xp proffesional it is getting up my nose have been trying to save my stuff to disk as a backup

  • Veteran Poet - 1,219 Points Jerry Hughes (12/11/2005 10:05:00 PM) Post reply | Read 5 replies

    I'd really like to know if anyone is currently suffering delays logging on to the P H site? My system operates by A D S L, and usually I get almost instant response. Today? It's slower than dial-up used to be. Appreciate hearing from anyone with the same problem. Did you manage to fix it, and now? Cheers, Jerry

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    • Veteran Poet - 1,219 Points Ernestine Northover (12/12/2005 3:28:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Hi Jerry, Having just come onto PH 12.12.05 and read this commment, I thank the Gods that someone else is experiencing this go slow on PH. It is driving me insane, I wait minutes before something will ... more

    • Veteran Poet - 1,219 Points Michael Shepherd (12/12/2005 5:28:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      yup, slower yesterday - particularly about 10 AM poemhunter time - than ever before. I though I identified four possible causes: Sunday traffic; overcrowding on this site (be glad?): the new pop=ups w ... more

    • Veteran Poet - 1,219 Points Joseph Daly (12/12/2005 4:16:00 AM) Post reply

      Yes, load of problems. Still getting a few but not as bad as when I logged on yesterday. I found that it was this site and I wonder if it can handle the imput of so many new contributers putting so ... more

    • Veteran Poet - 1,219 Points Allan James Saywell (12/12/2005 2:10:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      lots of problems jerry i have good equip ... more

    • Veteran Poet - 1,219 Points sheila knowles (12/12/2005 12:29:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      same problem her, Jerry. driving me nuts ... more

  • Rookie Guarded Heart (12/11/2005 4:57:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    I think some people have lost interest in poetry. in school its something your 'forced' to read. students see it as part of a lit class, and thats because we as poets don't share enough of it with the world. we need to bring back poetry in the younger generation, my gneration.

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Joseph Daly (12/12/2005 4:54:00 AM) Post reply

      Declan is right Samantha. I have to ask, what is it about poetry 'Not speaking to your generation' The point of poetry is that it speaks to humanity not to any particular race, gender or age group. ... more

    • Rookie Declan McHenry (12/11/2005 6:10:00 PM) Post reply

      Your point is a good one Samantha but Paul is right to a degree. My own first introduction to poetry was through music, specifically a songwriter who drew heavily on TS Eliott (although I do disagree ... more

  • Rookie - 150 Points Poetry Hound (12/11/2005 12:10:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Some good lines from recent poems submitted here:

    Under a polycarbonate cover of riot shields
    Like tadpole martyrs in a jam-jar
    The new recruits float into the firing line
    -The New Cannon Fodder by Tony Jennett

    Her eyes the
    Deep deep aqueducts
    The sunlight skated on
    Like water spiders
    -Beds of Concrete by Robert C. Rorabeck

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    • Rookie - 150 Points Poetry Hound (12/12/2005 7:03:00 AM) Post reply

      Interesting Ben, because the thing you are troubled by - the 'encroachment' - is what attracted me. I liked that he continued the image into the next line. I agree with you about the first two lines o ... more

    • Rookie - 150 Points Ben Cassel (12/12/2005 12:35:00 AM) Post reply

      Sherrie, my dear one, I must disagree. I love the sunlight skidding on water like those water-skater bugs, but Rorabeck's lines seem a rewrite of the old 'eyes as limpid pools' cliche. The first two ... more

  • Rookie - 7 Points Max Reif (12/11/2005 11:27:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Now, you'd have to call Richard Pryor a kind of a poet, IF you consider 'poetry' to be the white-hot flash of creativity (rather than the particular way words are arranged on a page, or recited metrically) . Brings up that old debate, 'What is a poet? '
    Here are a few of my favorite paragraphs from the NY TIMES obit:
    Despite his growing popularity, Mr. Pryor was frustrated. 'I made a lot of money being Bill Cosby, ' he recalled, 'but I was hiding my personality. I just wanted to be in show business so bad I didn't care how. It started bothering me - I was being a robot comic, repeating the same lines, getting the same laughs for the same jokes. The repetition was killing me.'

    In 1967, Mr. Pryor stormed off the stage of the Aladdin Hotel in Las Vegas, shouting, 'What am I doing here? I'm not going to do this anymore! '

    In his autobiography, he recalled: 'There was a world of junkies and winos, pool hustlers and prostitutes, women and family screaming inside my head, trying to be heard. The longer I kept them bottled up, the harder they tried to escape. The pressure built till I went nuts.'

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie - 7 Points Mary Nagy (12/11/2005 2:34:00 PM) Post reply

      I loved Richard Pryor! I think he was brilliant and he will be sadly missed Max. I wondered if anyone would bring him up here. Sincerely, Mary

  • Rookie Michael Shepherd (12/11/2005 7:26:00 AM) Post reply | Read 4 replies

    I'm intrigued this morning, by the degrees of dissociation, partial detachment, from 'my' poems.
    There's the moment of closure as you stop fiddling and send them out into the world - they're not quite what you hoped for them, but it's the best you can do...
    then you see them up on screen in a different typeface, and immediately spot some details that cry out to be altered; but they're a move away already, though you can be fiercely proud of your chicks.
    At that stage I know exactly the two lines at the most, maybe just a phrase or two words together, which 'wrote themselves' out of nowhere, and I enjoy them for that reason, and feel a little 'poetically proud' that I was the vehicle for them.
    But there's a strange and rather attractive moment when I see that someone has read it, because there is a favourable comment (doesn't have to be praise...) - and I find I read it as if it now has some validity as a poem; and in that frame of mind, I find things in it that I hadn't appreciated before. We've talked generally about 'why post? ' before; but for me, it's this touch of detachment through sharing, which makes the process all the more interesting

    It's more, and subtler, than just sharing. Do others have that same reaction?

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Declan McHenry (12/11/2005 1:07:00 PM) Post reply

      You make a good point about the 'phrase or two words together' which write themselves almost. They are always the starting point. The idea. Usually I find I am writing a piece for a specific person be ... more

    • Rookie Mary Nagy (12/11/2005 10:05:00 AM) Post reply

      Michael, You are so right about this feeling.........I feel the same way. When I post I feel like I've exposed a secret about myself (which is normally what my poems are) and I sit with a nervous ... more

    • Rookie Joseph Daly (12/11/2005 9:15:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

      I find that there is one of my works, which I think is the weakest (I'm not saying which one) but has consistently got the most hits. It can't be anything to do with the title (Which I think is prett ... more

    • Rookie sheila knowles (12/11/2005 7:52:00 AM) Post reply

      Yes, Michael. I do have that reaction an ... more

  • Veteran Poet - 1,219 Points Jerry Hughes (12/10/2005 10:42:00 PM) Post reply

    Another extraordinary piece by Bruce Dawe.

    the town of yeah

    He entered the valley town
    where csual yeahs are said
    some from a raging heart
    some for a crust of bread
    some as the moonlight sours
    on a rejected head.

    The doors hung rusted wide
    hens doddered in and out
    the hay-fork stood in the hay
    there was no-one about
    -when he hooted with all his might
    the echo swallowed his shout.

    A dog licked at a scum
    of dusty water that lay
    in a puddle beside a cart,
    stared hard and slid away
    -the hands of the town-hall clock
    stood blankly on midday.

    What had he hoped to find
    in this valley of the dead?
    Some baroque peace of mind?
    Some ornate crown for his head?
    A wing of corrugated iron
    flapped in an empty shed.

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